Well tie me to the spit and roast me twice.
(secret NY rez is to coin new hick sayings)
Have not been able to blog as I've been locked up in jail for my NYE badass activities.
I'm lying.
But what could I have been jailed for, in a nutshell?
Transporting a cache of pyrotechnics over state lines. Spotted an advert for Mess's Fireworks and followed signage to a VERY discreet operation where what I thought was a ferocious pitbull welcomed me.
It turned out to be an American bulldog and he was armed with a bag of potato chips in his muzzle.
And I nearly pooped my pants with glee when I saw what was inside... miles of neatly-packaged pyros. The dog's name was Pyro. And he slobbered all over me.
As the sign requested, and as I was not a PA citizen, I did not ask to fondle or buy the guns on display.
So onwards to the Middling City, to evening plans of Janet Reno Fan Club variety.
Meaning.
Dinner, drinks, bad behaviour.
I decided to resurrect the Chinese Fire Drill phenom and called for one on one of the city's busiest avenues, clapping my hands and yelling GO GO GO to everyone.
Along the way we picked up a few who needed a jolt of mischief (Jen and Jamal) and I treated them to a CFD.
We met up with them at a rooftop party at which my lungs were pruned by a fire rigged with that poison lighter fluid that should be fucking outlawed.
So at that party champagned and snarfled the buffet and, oh yes, gravitated topspeed to a provided basket of pyros like an early Easter present from a way-hip Easter bunny who knows my heart.
So Doug and I were figuring out how to blow up these 2 large bundles of joy with one wick each when one of the party elders got quite concerned and stated thusly:
You CANNOT blow those off up on this roof - you'll set fire to our neighbors' rooftops.
After a quick survey and summation of the environs (and my cursory Middling City expertise of our location) I thought And what the hell harm will that do here in Crack Heights.
So down we climbed, others in tow, to the street where we made sparks the size of cottages, smoke and danced madly in the street and then sped off to more more more.
More.
All about more, not less.
More love.
Less seriousness.
More Oban.
Less art dreaming.
More art doing.